


somebody told me

by dashwood



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Berlin is still a pretentious bastard, Canon Divergence, Five Times, Fluff, M/M, Palermo is part of the team, Set at the villa, Set in Season 1 | Pre Royal Mint, Swearing, Translation Available, not everyone is happy about it, the author lives in denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23558254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: “You were going to sleep,” Sergio said bemusedly. “In that?”He nodded towards Palermo’s attire. The black shirt and jeans, and – perhaps most perplexing of all – the velvet blazer which he knew belonged to Berlin. He briefly wondered if his brother had given it up willingly or if Palermo had snuck into his room and nicked it for his night out.Or: Five times Berlin and Palermo were mistaken for a couple (and one time they were more than friends).
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín
Comments: 195
Kudos: 590





	1. Sergio

**Author's Note:**

> There's a [translation into Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9574351) available by the wonderful [tteawoh](https://ficbook.net/authors/2801903).

There was a loud racket coming from the hallway, and Sergio suppressed the urge to groan. 

It looked like the usual suspects had managed to sneak out again, and now it was time for their drunken return – as was announced by the muffled cursing as someone stumbled into the coatrack. Clever they may be, but stealth clearly wasn’t one of their strengths. At least not while they were punch-drunk on sangria (or whatever else it was they served at village fetes; parties weren’t exactly Sergio’s forte). 

Usually, he would already be fast asleep by the time they returned. Either that or he’d be too exhausted to climb out of bed to chide them like a father would his misbehaving children. 

He wished he had that excuse right now, but seeing as he was still very much awake, there was no way around it. Being lenient wouldn’t do him any good in the long run. After all, Sergio needed them to respect him. To obey his rules and heed his warnings. How were they supposed to survive the Mint if they defied him at every turn? 

Sighing, he turned to exchange a knowing look with Berlin. 

After dinner, the two of them had retired to the parlor to discuss plans Auckland through Cologne over a glass of wine. The record player had fallen silent a while ago and neither of them had bothered to turn it back on. Still, the fireplace was lit, its flames rustling, and that alone should have been more than enough to let anyone know that he was still awake. 

He just hoped they had enough common sense to provide a proper distraction, something to allow them to disappear up the stairs and into their rooms without causing a kerfuffle. 

Something like… 

He looked up just in time to see Palermo stumbling into the room. It was obvious that someone had pushed him; the momentum of the shove had him throwing his arms out to brace himself against the doorway. His entrance – sudden and ungainly – was followed by stifled giggles and hurried footsteps sounding from somewhere behind him. 

_Ah yes_ , Sergio thought. _Enter the scapegoat._

He caught a flash of annoyance on Palermo’s face (he clearly hadn’t agreed to be manhandled), but it was gone in an instant, replaced by a bright grin. Sergio watched as he righted himself, trying for nonchalance. And failing miserably. 

“Berlin! And the Professor,” Palermo exclaimed. He sounded jovial, as though he hadn’t expected to see them but couldn’t be more delighted by this sudden turn of events. “Still awake then?” 

“We were just wrapping up, Palermo.” 

“Oh really? I was just heading to bed myself. Would you like to join me, Professor?” 

Palermo winked at him, bold and cheeky, but Sergio could see the way his eyes flicked over to Berlin as if to gauge his reaction. It almost seemed like he wanted to make sure that Berlin knew he was joking. That Sergio wasn’t where his interests lay. 

“You were going to sleep,” Sergio said bemusedly. “In that?” 

He nodded towards Palermo’s attire. The black shirt and jeans, and – perhaps most perplexing of all – the velvet blazer which he knew belonged to Berlin. He briefly wondered if his brother had given it up willingly or if Palermo had snuck into his room and nicked it for his night out. 

(He wasn’t sure which option disconcerted him more: that Berlin would readily share his wardrobe – bespoke suits and shirts that cost more than a minivan – or that Palermo seemed certain that he’d get away with his petty thievery scot-free.) 

The twitch of Palermo’s lips was his only tell, the only outward sign that he’d been caught red-handed. Sergio watched as he glanced at Berlin with something akin to sheepishness on his face. It wasn’t a silent apology per se, but something seemed to pass between them nonetheless. 

Maybe sharing clothes had become normal for them, Sergio tried to reason. After all, the two had shared quarters during their time in Florence. It would only be reasonable that their things had gotten mixed up from time to time. It didn’t necessarily have to mean anything. Granted, he had never known his brother to trust others with his possessions. But maybe that had changed in the last few years? 

Or maybe, Sergio mused as he glanced between the two, Palermo was just the exception. 

His thoughts were interrupted when Berlin rose from his seat and wandered over to Palermo. 

“Let’s get you to bed, my friend.” He clapped Palermo on the shoulder, gently turning him around to steer him towards the hallway. “You reek like a distillery.” 

Palermo bristled. 

“That’s hilarious,” he said, but his expression was deadpan. “Are you always this cantankerous, or does the alcohol allow me to see through your charming façade? Is this why you refuse to drink with me?” 

Sergio watched as Palermo stumbled up the stairs, graceless as a new-born fawn. Berlin lingered by his side, ready to catch him should he misstep. Sergio wondered if his brother noticed the way Palermo leaned into him, how his hand clung tightly to the back of Berlin's jacket as if to keep him close. 

“Did you volunteer for the glorified job as a human distraction?” Sergio heard Berlin ask. Rather than mirroring his displeasure, Berlin sounded amused. Almost fond. “Or was that a spontaneous decision?” 

“We discussed it and came to a mutual agreement,” Palermo said with a huff. And then, with a pointed look at Sergio over his shoulder, he added, “I’m a team player!” 

Sergio groaned and sunk back into his armchair. 

This was exactly why he hadn’t wanted to include Palermo in his plans. He was too egocentric, too reckless to be of any good to the team, and with every passing day Sergio's regrets and concerns were growing. But Berlin had insisted, and if Palermo was the price for his brother’s involvement, then Sergio’s hands were tied. After all, he _needed_ his brother there; that part was non-negotiable. 

He just hoped that – if nothing else – Palermo’s unconditional devotion to his brother would keep Andrés save. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not yet sure if I should stick with fluff or if these'll take a darker turn. I've got some ideas for angst, but I also have a great need for pure, unadulterated fluff.


	2. Tokyo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank all of you for your lovely comments. I think it's safe to say that - without your encouragement - this chapter would have taken me ages to finish.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, bright and blinding, as they strolled through the farmer’s market. The stalls were packed, each of them filled with a variety of fresh fruit and vegetables, homespun clothes and canned goods. Sweet-smelling jams, organic honey and garnished flower bouquets – it was heaven. 

Tokyo had been particularly taken with a small stall that sold baked goods; so much so that she’d even considered persuading Berlin and Palermo to stop for a cinnamon and pear tart. Then again, she couldn’t really imagine Berlin sitting down in one of the rustic chairs to eat something that would leave him with greasy fingers and sugar stains on his tie. He looked incredibly out of place in his three-piece suit, the arrogant tilt of his head at odds with the down-to-earth folks around them. 

Truthfully, she wasn’t sure how she’d gotten stuck with these two in the first place. Well, she supposed it only made sense that Berlin would volunteer to get their groceries. He did most of their cooking after all, and Tokyo had to give it to him: the man was an amazing chef (that is, once she had gotten over her paranoia that he’d try to poison them all. He seemed the type). 

As for Tokyo – she had tagged along to make sure that Berlin bought enough booze. They’d been running out of alcohol at an alarming rate (but could they really be faulted for that? They were about to embark on a suicide mission – which meant that they deserved to have some fun before things got serious. Carpe diem, and all that). Knowing Berlin, he’d probably return with a cask of swanky wine that tasted like something had crawled into her mouth to die. Yuck.

At least that was _her_ reason for tagging along. She wasn’t sure why Palermo had come. He seemed uncharacteristically surly as he trailed behind her, and his sullen mood was starting to irritate her. Why come if he’d rather do anything else? It wasn’t like there weren’t enough chores to be done around the house.

“80% alcohol,” Tokyo said as she picked up a bottle of home-brewed vodka. “Think this’ll do the trick?” 

Palermo cocked his head. His eyes flicked to Berlin, who had wandered off to examine a stand of fresh fruit and vegetables, before turning back to her. 

“I’m not sure.” Palermo pursed his lips. “Do you think that’s enough to drown out the annoying buzz of your voice?” 

That _bastard_. 

She bit down on the insult forming in her throat, hard. Instead, she shot him a glare and pressed two bottles of vodka into his chest. 

“He’s paying,” she told the vendor before spinning on her heels and wandering over to the next stall. Handmade jewelry, hmm. Those leather bracelets looked really cool. She wondered if she should buy one for Rio. It might be nice to see him wear something she'd gotten for him. A token of her – well, not affection. A token of her desire? 

Out of the corner of her eye Tokyo watched as Palermo approached Berlin. He looked ridiculous; strolling through the farmer’s market with two bottles of vodka clutched in his hands wasn’t the most dignified look for him. Especially if paired with that leather jacket and the windswept hair – and standing next to Berlin didn’t do him any favors either. 

Berlin acknowledged Palermo’s presence with a slight tilt of his head, and Tokyo watched in fascination as Berlin picked up a strawberry and held it up to Palermo’s lips. And Palermo – Tokyo’s eyes widened – he actually allowed himself be fed like a docile wildcat. 

She wasn’t sure if it was the afternoon light playing tricks on her eyes or if Palermo was actually blushing. She could _swear_ that there was a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks. Berlin didn’t seem to notice though – either that or he chose to ignore it. He simply turned back to the vendor and bought two boxes of strawberries, chatting and laughing as if nothing had happened. 

As for Palermo… The corners of his lips had lifted into a small smile, an almost reverent thing. He looked like a besotted schoolgirl, all doe-eyes and heart-a-flutter, and Tokyo suppressed the urge to gag. She knew that Palermo was a complete flirt. He’d already batted his eyes at Denver and Helsinki, but _Berlin_? Was Palermo really _that_ desperate? She couldn’t fathom anyone willingly jumping into bed with him. The guy had a massive stick up his ass, and Tokyo was dead sure that the only love he was capable of feeling was aimed at his own mirror. 

Then again, Palermo was a complete bastard too. So maybe, Tokyo mused, the two deserved each other. 

She turned away and busied herself with the bracelets in front of her, suddenly feeling embarrassed and unwanted. She shouldn’t have come. Maybe that’s why Palermo had been in such a rotten mood. Maybe he had been looking forward to spending time with Berlin, and she’d gone and invited herself. Like a third wheel. 

Still... 

There was nothing to it now. 

Taking a deep breath, Tokyo put on a fake smile and sauntered up to the two men. Berlin didn’t thank her when she took the groceries from him (what a prick, she thought), nor did he say anything when she nicked one of the strawberries and placed it between her lips, hollowing her cheeks to suck it into her mouth. It tasted cloying and summer-y, and the miffed glare Palermo sent her way made it even sweeter. 

“Hey," she said around a mouthful of fruit. "Can we get some tarts?” 

She realized her mistake as soon as Palermo opened his mouth, eyes shining with condescension. Tokyo briefly wondered just how unimaginative his next insult would be, but before she could find out what it was Berlin had stepped between them like a mediator in a hostage negotiation. 

“You’ll spoil dinner, Tokyo.” His tone left no room for arguments, and Tokyo rolled her eyes at the admonishment. She wasn't a child.

Still, she made a mental note of how quick Palermo was to follow Berlin's lead, clamping his mouth shut and turning away as though he’d suddenly lost all interest in taunting her. Tokyo couldn't make sense of it. She hadn't pegged Palermo as the type who'd submit to others, and Berlin was too self-absorbed to care about anyone other than himself.

And yet, she had no doubt that these two would stick together if bad came to worse at the Mint. Unequivocally and without regret. 

It was something she would have to watch out for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I'm not yet sure if~~ I ~~should~~ stick with fluff ~~or if these'll take a darker turn. I've got some ideas for angst, but I also have a great need for~~ pure, unadulterated fluff.


	3. Denver

He was awoken – suddenly, _rudely_ – by a shouting match taking place outside his room. Not even the pillow he had pressed against his ears could drown out the noise.

With a long-suffering groan, Denver climbed out of his bed and headed across the room. He threw the door open, nearly ripping it off its hinges. 

“-gonna spell it out for you,” Tokyo snarled, her arms crossed in front of her chest as she stared Palermo down. “Methinks, the lady doth protest too much.” 

Palermo bit out a laugh, and Denver tried not to flinch at the sound. There was a sharp edge to it that made him sound near-manic, almost dangerous. 

“Watch what you’re saying, Tokyo.” 

“Hey, hey!” Denver hissed, mindful to keep his voice down. “What’s going on?” 

The two spun around to face him, and Denver took an involuntary step back when he saw the pure hatred on their faces. Their flushed cheeks and blazing eyes were at odds with the sleep-tousled hair and rumpled clothes (a tiny T-shirt and panties for Tokyo, and a grey bathrobe thrown over a white shirt and plaid pajama pants for Palermo). They looked wild and feral, and for a second Denver regretted having left his bed. 

“Tokyo was just shitting all over the Professor’s rules and sneaking into Rio’s room for a quick fu-” 

“Like you weren’t about to hook up with Be—” 

“I was going to get a glass of water!” 

“Is that what you two call it?” Tokyo said smugly, a sly grin stretching her lips into a grimace. “Because if you call it _sex_ , Berlin can no longer pretend that he’s straight?” 

Denver winced. He wasn't sure what was going on, but that was definitely the wrong thing to say. 

Palermo bristled, his feathers ruffled. Then he squared his shoulders and raised his chin, and Denver braced himself for another outburst – this time louder, more vicious – when two more doors opened down the hallway. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Nairobi hissed as she poked her head out of her room. Denver had to stifle a snicker as he watched her rip the _Hello Kitty_ sleep mask off her eyes, dragging it down until it hugged her throat like a necklace made of pink feathers. “I’m trying to sleep here.” 

Palermo sucked in a breath, clearly about to launch back into his finger-pointing and blame-casting routine when Denver noticed Berlin. His silhouette was illuminated by the faint moonlight breaking in through the windows behind him, giving Denver a perfect view of— 

“Hold on, are you sleeping in a _suit_?” The words were out of his mouth before he’d had a chance to run them past his brain. “What are you, some kind of Dracula?” 

He chuckled at his own joke – because come on, it was a good one! But Berlin’s face remained blank, closed-off. It was as though Denver was beneath his notice, and it made his cheeks flush with embarrassment. The moment stretched, _lingering_ , until Palermo eventually broke the tense silence with a snort that was equal parts condescension and contempt. 

“Dracula is a specific character, you half-wit,” Palermo said in as patronizing a tone as Denver had ever heard. “There isn’t ‘some kind of Dracula’. Just like there’s no proper paella without sofrito, or how all women are sluts.” 

A beat. Then— 

Within seconds, the hallway erupted into an uproar of voices as everyone started to shout at each other. Nairobi and Tokyo were yelling at the top of their lungs, and Palermo’s accent had gotten so thick that Denver had trouble making out his words. All of it melted together into an impenetrable wall of noise, enraged and deafening. A riot. 

“Ladies, gentlemen.” Berlin’s words cut through their shouting like a sharp knife. He hadn’t even raised his voice, Denver realized, and yet they’d all fallen silent at once, shrinking back like children who’d just been caught in a scuffle. “There’s no need to fight now, is there? How about we each take a deep breath and step back into our rooms like civilized criminals?” 

It sounded like a suggestion, a polite request, but Denver could tell that it was an order. The others seemed to think so too, and Denver watched as Nairobi and Tokyo returned to their respective rooms, grumbling under their breaths. Tokyo slammed the door shut behind her and Denver rolled his eyes at her childish antics. _Seriously_.

He was just about to call it a night and head back into his own room when something caught his eye. 

It was hard to make anything out in the unrelenting darkness surrounding them, but Denver’d swear that he saw Berlin and Palermo exchange a pointed look. It only lasted for a second or two before Palermo shrugged and offered Berlin a lopsided grin. Something seemed to pass between them then, an unspoken conversation, and Denver watched as they each retreated to their rooms. Wordlessly, curiously. 

Huh, Denver thought as he shut his door behind him. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. He didn’t know if there’d been any truth to Tokyo’s accusations or if she had merely been trying to rile Palermo up. 

And, he thought as he threw himself back into his pillows, he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Denver's confusion re: Dracula was inspired by Community's Troy Barnes because honestly? Same energy.
> 
> Next chapter ("Helsinki") on Tuesday.


	4. Helsinki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants to see Berlin be a manipulative bastard? 👋

The pain currently shooting up his ankle wasn’t the worst he’d ever felt, not by a long shot, but the Professor insisted that he take five anyway. The team would have to manage without him, the Professor said, his voice raised to drown out Denver’s claims that abandoning his team when they were three goals behind was ‘unpatriotic’. 

“I’ve got you,” Palermo said as he draped Helsinki’s arm over his shoulder and helped him hobble towards the patio. Helsinki shot him a grateful smile before dropping onto one of the empty chairs with an undignified _oof_. 

Berlin didn’t even glance up from his sketchbook. He was the only one who had opted out of their friendly match, claiming that he would rather ‘paint than partake’. He had told them that he didn’t see the point in trading his suit for a pair of shorts just to chase a ball around a dirty pitch of grass, and not even their combined goading and teasing had swayed him. 

“How’s the masterpiece coming along?” Palermo asked as he peeked over Berlin’s shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the work in progress. “You should paint me from the left – it’s my best side.” 

“Only heroes deserve to be immortalized, Palermo.” Berlin’s eyes were distant, but there was a teasing edge to his words. He sounded almost amused. “You’ll have to step up your game if you want me to draw you.” 

Helsinki barked out a laugh at the outraged look on Palermo’s face. It only lasted for a second or two before Palermo’s resolve crumbled and his lips twitched into a ballsy grin. 

“You want to see something sensational, huh? I’ll show you!” 

And with that he was off again, hollering at Oslo to pass him the ball. 

Helsinki’s eyes followed him around the pitch, captivated by Palermo’s energy, his fervor. He was absolutely fascinating. The way his lips would quirk into a smug smile whenever his team scored a goal, his cheeks flushed with excitement. How he’d card his fingers through his hair – a tousled mess, the fringe sticking to the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Palermo was living in the moment, completely and unashamedly. The future was nothing but an afterthought.

It was mesmerizing. 

_He_ was mesmerizing. 

“Do you like him, Helsinki?” 

He glanced over at Berlin, searching his face to decipher the meaning behind his words. Berlin seemed to be completely absorbed in his work though, switching between pens and brushes with no apparent rhyme or reason to it. 

“I think he’s great,” Helsinki said eventually, his words colored with affection. He couldn’t help it. Something about Palermo made him feel like a smitten schoolboy. “How long have you two known each other?” 

Berlin made a sound caught somewhere between a disinterested hum and a sigh. 

“Long enough.” 

“Do you think… After this is over – I wouldn’t want to break the Professor’s rules,” Helsinki hesitated, unsure how to phrase the question that had been plaguing him for the past few days. “Do you think I might have a chance with him?” 

Berlin paused, his brush hovering a fingerbreadth above the paper. When he eventually looked up, the expression on his face was closed-off, unreadable. 

“Do you want my honest opinion, Helsinki?” 

“Of course.” 

A few, excruciatingly long seconds passed, and Helsinki was beginning to think that he should’ve just kept quiet. He wanted to bark out a laugh, claim that he was only joking. That rules were rules, and that they should just forget about it – anything to diffuse the sudden tension between them. 

When Berlin finally turned back to his sketchbook, Helsinki let out a relieved sigh. 

“No,” Berlin said. “I don’t think you have a chance with Palermo.” 

_Oh_. 

Helsinki felt his heart sink as his chest filled with disappointment. _Why_ , he wanted to ask, but there was no point to it. He wasn’t particularly keen on adding to the pain; there was no need to hear Berlin list all the reasons why Helsinki was lacking, why he wasn’t good enough for someone like Palermo. 

Silence settled over them, and Helsinki welcomed it with open arms. He didn’t think there was anything left to say, and so he relished in the quiet, inwardly berating himself for having built his hopes up in the first place. 

Soon enough the others joined them on the patio, laughing and rehashing their best moments. Tokyo and Rio went off in search for something to eat, and Denver begged the Professor for a rematch – this time with an even number of players. 

Palermo plopped down on the chair next to Berlin, a proud smile on his face. 

“Did you see?” 

“Did I see what, Palermo?” Berlin didn’t look up from his sketchbook, seemingly uninterested, but Helsinki could see the mirth in his eyes. “How you missed your penalty?” 

“Before that.” Palermo picked up two different shades of green and held them up next to his eyes as though trying to pick the right color for Berlin’s painting. “I scored two goals, which means that I deserve to be immortalized for my triumph!” 

“What triumph?” Nairobi chimed in as she put a six pack of beer down in front of them. “You were stumbling over your own two left feet!” 

Helsinki chuckled as he watched them bicker, a constant back-and-forth of teasing remarks. It did wonders to lift his spirits, and he found himself loosening up, his conversation with Berlin forgotten.

That is, until he noticed the wistful look that crossed Palermo’s face whenever Berlin spoke up. Helsinki knew that look. He had worn it himself often enough, especially in the last few days: a combination of hope and resignation. 

_Unrequited affection_. 

Maybe, Helsinki thought, this was why he didn’t stand a chance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Palermo: Paint me like one of your French girls, Berlin.  
> Berlin: No.


	5. Nairobi

“How long have you known?” 

Nairobi stopped dead in her tracks, her left foot hovering in mid-air. She’d been about to sneak out for a cigarette or two, but the distraught tone in Palermo’s voice gave her pause. The door to his room was slightly ajar and a strip of pale moonlight painted a narrow line onto the hallway floor. Carefully, she set her foot down and sunk into the shadows, pressing her back against the wall behind her like a femme fatale in a film noir. 

“There’s not a part of you that I don’t know,” she heard Berlin say. He sounded surprisingly matter-of-fact, almost clinical. It was a harsh contrast to the meaning behind his words. “Your affections for me are no exception.” 

_Affections_? 

Nairobi scrunched up her face. Palermo liked Berlin? Well, now that she thought about it, it _did_ make sense. The two were inseparable; Palermo in particular seemed to follow Berlin around the villa almost constantly. It was as if he was pulled in by Berlin’s gravitational force, orbiting around him like an enamored moon. 

She should probably leave. This sounded suspiciously like a lover’s quarrel, something intimate. Something she shouldn’t be privy to. But her feet disobeyed her, glued to the floor as though they were stuck in lead. 

Palermo let out an angry huff. 

“So, you knew this whole time? And you didn’t say anything?” 

“I don’t see why I would have.” A pause, then: “Don’t you like the way things are between us?” 

“Yes,” Palermo said before adding in a smaller, unsure tone, “no.” 

Nairobi frowned. It was almost like Palermo’s first instinct was to agree with anything Berlin said. Like a knee-jerk reaction, an impulse that couldn’t be suppressed. 

Palermo groaned in frustration, and even though Nairobi couldn’t see him from her hiding place, she could vividly imagine the look on his face. His lips drawn into a thin line, eyes blazing with hurt and confusion. She imagined him tousling his hair, fingers pulling at the strands until they stood up in all directions. 

(Come to think of it, Nairobi had once spotted Berlin petting Palermo’s hair in an attempt to smooth it down. It must have been right after their football match the other day. Would he do it again, she wondered. Would he reach out and card his fingers through Palermo’s hair to calm him down, or would he allow him the much-needed space to compose himself? To collect his thoughts.) 

“Was any of this even real?” Palermo’s voice was cracked and raw. “Do you actually care about me, or were you just throwing me a bone, huh? Just enough to string your stupid gay friend along and keep him hoping for more?”

To her shock Berlin chuckled. 

“You think I don’t love you? I feel it too. There’s something between us. Something extraordinary, unique, _marvelous._ I know about love. I’ve been married five times. What I’ve never told you is that none of these women ever made me feel something remotely similar to what I feel with you. Not even close. You and I are soulmates.” 

There was a small pause, the flutter of a heartbeat.

“Shouldn’t that be enough, Martín?” 

Nairobi closed her eyes and shook her head. No, she thought. Love didn’t work that way. It didn’t work in halves and thirds and quarters. It couldn’t be measured in percent or inches. Love was selfish and all-consuming, and anyone would be a fool – a masochist and a coward – to settle for anything less. 

“It’s enough,” Palermo echoed, the words catching in his throat. He sounded so small and broken that something inside her chest twinged in sympathy. In _pity_. 

_Oh Palermo_ , she thought. 

“I knew you’d agree, my friend,” Berlin said, and Nairobi’s hands clenched into fists at her side, offended on Palermo’s behalf. They weren’t friends, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed seeing him hurting. And this – what Berlin was doing to him right now – was bound to hurt like hell. 

Without warning, the door to Palermo’s room swung open. Nairobi barely managed to throw herself against the wall before Berlin strode past her. She held her breath as he disappeared down the stairs, cutting through the darkness like a silky shadow. Strangely enough, he hadn’t seemed to notice her, leading Nairobi to wonder if he’d truly been as unaffected by his conversation with Palermo as she’d thought. 

Once she was sure that Berlin was gone, Nairobi quietly tiptoed up to Palermo’s room. Just one quick glance, she reasoned with herself. To make sure that he was alright – that was all. 

Palermo was standing in the middle of the room with his back turned to the door. His shoulders were shaking with suppressed sobs, the silence only broken by the soft whimpers that escaped him. He looked like he was willing himself to die, and Nairobi’s heart broke at the sight. 

She lingered in the doorway, torn between wanting to soothe him and pretending that she hadn’t just witnessed Berlin crush his heart into a thousand tiny pieces. In the end, she turned away and headed back to her own room, knowing that her company would not be welcome. 

There were no words to ease his heartache, nothing that could lessen the longing. Nairobi knew this intimately. The bitter taste of regret would linger in his mouth and his brain would torment him with agonizing what-ifs. What if Berlin had reciprocated his feelings? What if he could have been what Berlin wanted, what he _needed_? What if his gamble had cost him Berlin’s friendship? 

What if he’d never feel happiness again? 

For Palermo’s sake, Nairobi hoped that he’d find a way to move on. To keep his grief from swallowing him whole. Maybe he’d even share his insights with her. Nairobi couldn’t remember how it felt to live without sorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As requested, I'll add a +1 chapter because a) that's probably the proper thing to do with _five times_ stories and b) I feel guilty about all the angst I've put into this. So much for fluff galore 🤦
> 
> How about a friendly wager? Anyone who correctly guesses the POV for the last chapter can leave a prompt and I’ll write something up for it!


	6. Raquel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank you all for reading & commenting. Your encouragement made me want to write more, and better, and faster, and I think it’s safe to say that without you, I would still be stuck on chapter one.
> 
> @Everyone who guessed Raquel’s POV for this chapter: Feel free to leave a prompt and I’ll do my best to write something up for you!

When Raquel Murillo entered the Royal Mint of Spain, she was greeted by three figures in Dali masks. 

The doors slid close behind her with an ominous groan, effectively trapping her inside. There was no going back now. She was completely at their mercy – without a weapon and without a connection to the outside world. A fly caught in a spider’s web. 

She’d be damned if she let them see her struggle. 

One of the figures stepped forward, their hands coming up to unfasten the mask around their head. It was one of the hostage-takers they had already identified; Raquel recognized the dark eyes, the arched brows. The lazy smile, smug and self-satisfied, like the cat who got the canary. 

Andrés de Fonollosa. 

He looked every bit the imposing leader. There was an air of careful insouciance about him, an emotional indolence that radiated off of him, as though he hadn’t a care in the world. 

Truthfully, it rattled her. Raquel had expected to see a chink in their armor, but Fonollosa seemed surprisingly laid-back. There were no visible signs of fatigue about him as he introduced himself as _Berlin_ and led her over to a pair of chairs in the center of the room. 

He even offered her a cup of coffee and Raquel watched as a simple flick of his hand sent one of the Dalis running. It was only her and Berlin then, and...

Cautiously, her gaze trailed towards the man leaning against the stairs. Just like Berlin, he had taken his mask off as soon as the doors had closed behind her, seemingly uninterested in keeping his identity a secret. 

She tried to burn his face into her mind, committing each line to memory. The green eyes and dark hair, the sharp cheekbones and square jaw. As soon as she got out of there, she’d commission a composite sketch. Although she doubted that any artist could capture the look of pure distaste on his face. He was staring at Raquel as if she was dirt stuck to the sole of his shoes, something vile and disgusting.

Something _filthy_. 

He didn’t say anything though – at least not to her. She caught a short snippet of conversation between him and the Dali returning with her coffee, just enough for her to notice the lilt of his accent. Argentinian. 

He never strayed from Berlin’s side, his hand resting firmly on the butt of his gun, the knuckles white and shiny. Raquel couldn’t shake the impression that he was just waiting for her to step out of line. His scrutiny unnerved her, and so Raquel made a show of concentrating on the hostages. 

She asked them if they were alright. If they had been hurt or abused. If they were given enough food and water, and if they were allowed to sleep. 

The gravity of her questions was a harsh contrast to Berlin’s unconcerned demeanor. He paraded the hostages past her, laughing and smiling as he appraised them like cows in a market. He even had the gall to flirt with her, as if she were there for pleasure rather than business. He was absolutely shameless. 

It made her skin crawl. 

“You’re welcome to come and visit us anytime, _Inspectora_ ,” Berlin said as he escorted her back to the door, his eyes shining with mirth and something darker – something predatory. “A conjugal visit—” 

“Shut up.” 

Raquel jumped, her eyes flying to the Argentinian. His lips were drawn into a thin line as he stared Berlin down, his chin raised in defiance. 

“What,” he spat out. “You want to fuck the whore from the _policía_ , but I’m not good enough for you?” 

He barked out a self-depreciating laugh, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. It made Raquel’s blood run cold with the sudden realization that she had stepped right into a landmine. 

“That’s enough, Palermo.” 

Berlin’s tone sent a shiver down her spine. It was as if someone had flicked a switch, souring his charm and turning it into coldness. Surely, the man – Palermo, her mind supplied – would heed Berlin’s warnings and defer to his authority— 

“No,” Palermo said, and before Raquel knew what was happening, Palermo had drawn his gun and pointed it right at Berlin’s chest. 

Adrenaline flooded her system. How could she have been so blind? She’d thought that there were no weak points in their lineup, but the signs were right there, written on Palermo’s face: the limp hair, the dark circles under his eyes, the tremble in his hands… It was obvious that he was on the verge of a breakdown, and Raquel was beginning to fear for her life. 

Palermo was the maddest of them all, of that she was sure. The word _feral_ popped into her head. Standing there with his brow furrowed and his lips twisted into a snarl, Palermo looked absolutely savage. A wild thing about to crash and burn, and take them with him. 

Raquel swallowed hard. 

“It’s alright, Palermo,” she said, raising her hands in a placating gesture. “We’re not-” 

Berlin threw his arm out, pushing her behind him as though attempting to shield her from a wild animal. His eyes never left Palermo’s face as he closed the distance between them, and Raquel watched in horror as he put his hand over Palermo’s and pressed the gun right against his chest – the muzzle resting over Berlin’s heart. 

Palermo froze. Even though he was the one holding the gun, he looked absolutely _terrified_. 

“Go on,” Berlin said. “Do it.” 

Raquel sucked in a sharp breath. She turned away and screwed her eyes shut, unwilling to witness the pull of the trigger, the blood coating the walls in a grotesque imitation of a Rorschach test. 

The moment seemed to go on forever, pushing and pulling and straining into an eternity. But there was no gunshot. The room was silent save for Palermo’s ragged breathing, and then: a defeated whimper, small and pitiful. 

“I can’t. I—” Palermo cut himself off with a choked sob. Raquel sighed in relief as he lowered the gun, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He looked almost ashamed. 

Slowly, Berlin reached up to cup his cheeks, and for one terrible, harrowing second Raquel feared that he might twist his hands and snap his neck. But to her relief Berlin merely brushed his thumbs over Palermo’s cheekbones, the touch surprisingly gentle. _Forgiving_. 

“Did you know that there’s no such thing as a fear of heights?” Berlin asked. The sudden change in topic made her mouth fall open in an incredulous _oh_. An unhinged psychopath had just threatened to shoot them and Berlin wanted to start a debate on _heights_ of all things? _Really_? 

“The only thing people are afraid of is themselves. They fear that faced with the possibility, the choice, the _opportunity_ to throw themselves into the arms of Death, they will lose all sense of self-preservation. That they will forget themselves and jump. Close their eyes and plunge into uncertainty, no matter the consequences.” He paused. “That’s how I feel about you.” 

_Oh_ , Raquel thought. For a man like Berlin – a narcissist who needed to be revered and adored, who was ruled by the principle of respectability and decorum – for someone like him to give up control? He might have as well surrendered himself to Palermo, wholly and unreservedly. 

Palermo seemed to think so, too. His eyes filled with hope, and Raquel watched as Berlin brushed the tip of his thumb over Palermo’s lips, parting them gently, _softly_. The whole scene made her feel like she was intruding on a private moment, an intimate scene between lovers. 

Raquel looked away. 

She’d been wrong. These men weren’t cold-blooded monsters. They were filled with rage and passion and a hunger for more, yes. But their actions were guided by _love_. There was a special bond between them, an unshakeable trust. A solidarity she had never felt with her colleagues at the _policía_. 

When Berlin turned back to her at last, she offered him a smile that almost reached her eyes. 

She’d let them have this win. It looked like they needed it more than her. 

But the next time, she’d get them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap. This is as much of a happy ending as I'll grant them. I'm sure they'll be fine though. When Raquel eventually tracks Sergio down, these two will be there with him. Alive and well and _happy_.

**Author's Note:**

> Head over to my [tumblr](https://sorrydearie.tumblr.com/post/616287171452796928/i-wanted-to-share-a-small-extra-snippet-from-my) for an extra snippet ("Moscow") inspired by the wonderful Shotgun_Shuts_His_Cakehole.


End file.
